


Ciri: A Night At The Bloody Baron's

by ArtofLupin



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Gen, Inspired by The Witcher, The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:53:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22439056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtofLupin/pseuds/ArtofLupin
Summary: Tired and wounded, Ciri curls up by a roaring fire and reflects.
Kudos: 5





	Ciri: A Night At The Bloody Baron's

I sat on the bed staring, transfixed, on the snapping of the crackling heath ahead. The dancing flames warmed my aching bones and battered body, yet my heart still felt cold as morning frost. 

Slumping from the bed and onto the floor, I embraced the hardwood like an old lover. The heat of the fire felt pleasant on the calloused soles of my feet as I ran my fingernail in the deep, dry grooves of the age-old rotten floor. I unconsciously flexed and popped my toes as I used to when I was a little girl, forced to dance in ballerina classes.

My eyes glazed recalling those long forgotten years. How I so _despised_ them then. How could I have known those skills learned in the pursuit of finer arts, such as dance, would prove to be an invaluable primer for my later training in combat against the grizzliest, ugliest monsters this wretched world could produce.

A smile cracked across my chapped dry lips thinking of Vesemir teaching the intricacies of dancing on your tip-toes back in Kaer Morhen. The image of the old Witcher in a tutu doing a pirouette forced out a chuckle. A sensation I nearly forgot myself capable of. I thought about how Geralt might even join him in an elaborate performance of the _‘_ _Dove and the Toad_ _’_ on the decrepit walls of the fortress.

My heart splintered upon Geralt’s name being forced to the forefront of my mind again. A pain I thought would at least grow numb by now. Instead, it seemed with every amounting day the throbbing pain in my heart only evolved into a greater stabbing sensation. Like there was a greater jagged shard of ice being plunged deep into my chest over and over again with every passing recollection. Without thinking, I doubled over. Clutching my face, I could feel my icy digits trembling against my forehead.

 _‘Get a hold of yourself, girl!_ _’_ I heard my stronger half call from the back of my mind. _‘What's done is done. You can only move forward._ _’_

Hot tears trickled between my palms and cheeks. Despite all I had accomplished and been through, all I had overcome, I still just wanted to crawl into Geralt’s arms and cry. I didn’t want to be strong. I wanted to pitch a fit, kick and scream about how much it hurt and how tired I was. I wanted only the security and safety that my father, my _real_ father’s arms provided.

I wiped my face with the back of my hand and spotted small streaks of black on my skin. My mind instantly snapped back to Kaer Morhen all those winters ago. When I was training and Triss visited. She saw how much of a tom-boy I had become living amongst the Witchers. Not that I cared. I found it a point of pride. I saw myself as a part of the pack and had long abandoned the image of a prim and proper princess. Like it or not, those days had been ripped from me.

Triss did her best to ‘girl’ me up a bit. Not much stuck, but her presence was such a comfort back then. While I was never going to reach the ideal image of femininity that she was, she became something of a big sister to me during that time. She taught me that I didn’t always have to play up the testosterone-filled jughead and that I was allowed to feel pretty and take care of myself. Occasionally be ‘indisposed.’ She was the one to introduce me to the elven creation of make-up too. While I hadn’t bothered to go all-out with it in some time, the eye shadow always stuck around.

I unclasped the wolf talisman from the loop in my trousers and examined the delicate relic in the flickering fire. The silver wolf-head bared its dagger-like teeth and seemed frozen in time as it was about to launch itself in for the kill.

Sometimes I wished I were frozen in time too. In those simpler days at the old Witcher keep. Those moments with Coen playing slap hands in front of the fire on a cold winter’s day, or Geralt shouting from afar as I mastered my technique on the pendulum. To the times before I knew what I really was.

I clutched the talisman and brought it close to my heart. I could feel another onslaught of tears threatening to break through my defenses. With a single arm, I fished for the woolen blanket top of the creaky moth-eaten mattress and dragged it over me. Cocooning myself in the dusty drape, I only allowed my mess of ashen hair to poke out. I tightly shut my bloodshot emerald eyes and prepared myself for yet another sleepless night.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! Thanks for reading my Witcher Fanfic!
> 
> Let me know what you thought in the comments. If you enjoyed it, consider checking one of my many other short stories on my website!
> 
> Want to receive regular updates on my works - including updates on my original works like ‘Neo,’ a cyberpunk-themed mystery series - submit your email to MarkLupinWrites@gmail.com and I’ll get you on my mailing list!
> 
> Thanks!
> 
> Website: ArtofLupin.com
> 
> Email: MarkLupinWrites@gmail.com
> 
> Twitter: @ArtofLupin


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